


Lamplight

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Undressing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She reaches for the lamp, planning to put it out; there’s more than enough moonlight to finish undressing. Max makes a protesting sound.Fill for thesmutty_arts prompt challenge, inspired byyoukaiyume'sgorgeous NSFW art





	Lamplight

It’s late when they get back. A patrol had turned into a salvage run when Max spotted the ruins of a house, uncovered by a recent landslip. Two rooms were almost intact, muffled in sand that had crushed some furniture but protected fabric and utensils.

It’s a rich enough source that they’d stayed on, working by the moon and careful use of Furiosa’s precious flashlight. Just beyond Citadel territory, they don’t want to draw the attention of other scavs. They can send a team out in the morning, but the place might be picked clean by then. The desert looks empty, but that’s never a guarantee.

“About as much as we can do tonight,” she says. Max grunts, and starts loading the car. They find room for a few bags of unsorted small fry, the stuff they don’t have time or light to check properly. 

The Citadel is quiet, the garages almost deserted, just a few lamps burning. This is dark season; they may not have summer and winter as the Mothers remembered them, but the light still changes. It’s more obvious now that they try to be less wasteful. Electric bulbs blazed all night under Joe’s regime, at least for imperators. The new Citadel has lights enough for safety, for the night crews, but little more. Furiosa and Max leave the bulky items in his car, and carry the bags through shadowy corridors to her room.

Inside, she lights her lamp to check the stash, the small items she’d swept out of cupboards into a canvas bag. There’s cutlery, both metal and warped, useless plastic, though the crafters might still be able to use some of that for decoration. The box at the bottom of the bag proves to be a medical kit. The pills and bottles will need closer examination, but the bandages and scissors suggest a well-maintained setup. She’d found it in a drawer stuffed with shreds of rotted plastic, a drift of the stuff. A few scraps are clinging to the box, marked with bright patterns but so fragile that she couldn’t tell what any of it had been. 

Max steps in with his own bundle, an oddly square bag with a worn strap. As she watches, Furiosa starts unbuckling her arm, something she could do in the dark by now. She doesn’t recognise the tech folded neatly inside the bag, though there’s something like a distance viewer mounted on the front. When Max takes the dark lid off, the glass underneath looks unscratched.

“Camera,” Max says, as if that explains it. Stripping off her bodice, Furiosa steps in for a closer look, but still doesn’t recognise it. “For taking pictures?” Max says. “Photographs.” Old people still cherish scraps of picture papers, Furiosa remembers, fading images of people and places from Before. There were more in the bigger wordburgers, collected in the vault, uncrumpled and preserved, their colours still bright. “Look, there’s film…” he points at a bundle of little plastic tubes, still sound. Perhaps the bag protected them, or maybe they were just sturdier to begin with. “Rest can wait for daylight.”

She reaches for the lamp, planning to put it out; there’s more than enough moonlight to finish undressing. Max makes a protesting sound.

He’s looking at her, dark-eyed, in a way that makes her aware of the thinness of her loose shirt, the way her body must show through it with the light behind her.

“Leave the lamp on?” His voice is scratchy and deep, a rumble that she can feel in her belly, and though he makes it a question there’s a weight of need behind it. Furiosa is careful with her ration of lamp oil, and has plenty to spare, but if she were down to her last cupful the look on his face would persuade her. 

When she steps towards him, he’s already reaching for her, hands on her hips. He strokes up, one hand firm on her waist, the other cupping her breast. He thumbs at her nipple, showing hard through the washed-thin cotton.

“Want to see you,” he says, still in that hoarse undertone. At the answering little sound in her throat, he drops his head to kiss her collarbone, hot and wet as he mouths along the edge of her shirt. Her hand is in his hair, her nub pulling him closer.

He takes his time about undressing her, almost caressing her top off, hands stroking as he pushes the fabric up. When he gets her breast binding off he just stands there, cloth hanging from one hand as he stares, pleasure and wonder all over his face.

“You too,” she tells him, tugging at his jacket. 

They go slowly, one garment at a time, touching and watching. She loves getting her hand on his shirt, on his skin, but she loves seeing him step back to drop his leathers, too. After a day in the desert, she can smell him – he’s not dirty, though she knows the Dag and Toast might tease him about washing, but there’s a musk to him, the scent of a body that has warmed and worked and is right there, responding to hers. 

The lamplight is so soft on his skin, on the tan of his face and hands, the paler skin that he keeps covered up. Max is beautiful in all lights, she thinks, sunlight and darkness and the shadows of the garage, for all he tries to hide it with hunched shoulders and terrible haircuts. This warm glow feels magical, a shared private space keeping out the darkness. She’s staring at the strength of his thighs, how his muscles flex as he bends to undo his boots, his cock more than half-hard. The scars of his knee show up white and red, knotted and vulnerable. It’s strange and marvellous that he should trust her enough to be bare.

Once they’re both naked, he steps back in, reaching for her. It’s as if she can see herself in the way he touches her, the pleasure of his hands on her. They’re hard and calloused and so delicate, curving over hip and thigh, belly and breast. He tilts her to the light, bending to kiss her breast before drawing her back to the rumpled bed. 

He gathers her into his lap as he sits down. She’s pushing closer, pulling him in, just as he turns. It gets them both off balance, and she sprawls, bum slipping off his thigh, skin on skin as they move to right themselves. Max tugs the pillows in behind her, twisting himself under her thighs to support her better. They end up in a tangled heap, Furiosa half-lying across him, her hips canted up into the air. It should be awkward but it feels wonderful: she’s spread out with the muscle of his body against her and under her, her cunt lifted for him. She nudges her legs wider, feels him moan.

He takes his time about touching her, hand sliding warm and slow, down to the curls between her legs. She’s not even sure that he’s teasing; there’s a thoroughness to it, possessing all of her, his head down to suck at her nipple. She gets her foot to the floor, bracing herself.

She feels lit up and so seen. Max searches out things she often hides or downplays, sides of herself she wouldn’t show outside this room. It’s not that she denies any of it, not exactly, but her armour is a habit. She’s being taken out of it, opened up gently and completely, laid bare. Sometimes it terrifies her. 

She wraps herself tighter around him, her nub around his shoulder, her face almost in his neck. She leans in to lick, finds his pulse and sucks harder. Max groans, shifting his arm under her, taking the strain off her stomach muscles. The fingers of his other hand reach down to part her lips, where she’s already wet and tingling.

She comes so fast, her face in the shadow of his neck, his mouth on her breast and his fingers working. Her cunt is clenching almost at once, her whole body just waiting to be tipped over the edge. She can hear herself wail, high and surprised, hear Max’s pleased little noise. He sounds gruff and happy, his cock thick and hot against her bum. He goes on stroking, petting her as she gasps and shivers, soothing but keeping her going. She realises he’s watching her, his full mouth just curving into a smile. When she smiles back, he strokes a little harder, slips a finger inside her. 

Her cunt clenches down on him, twitching and shivery as he eases in a second finger. Max ducks his head back to her breast, his fingers rubbing and curling, finding just the right spot and settling down to work at it. She jerks in his lap, clinging on tight, legs splayed wider. It takes longer to come, she’s too wired to let go so easily a second time. By the time she gets there, she’s jelly-legged and gasping. His hand must be drenched. Max is smiling again. 

Furiosa turns, pulling his head up so she can kiss him, messy and wet. The golden light picks out the powerful line of his neck, the width of his shoulders. His hand is warm and sticky on her bum, his cock leaving a smear of wet across her belly. 

She reaches down to stroke him, fingers finding precum and spreading it down. He groans, eyes closing for a moment, and she just wants to watch him.

“Wait – getting – ” She’s reluctant to pull away, but she knows what she’s looking for, grabbing the oil they use for massage, when her shoulder or his knee are painfully tight. “Like this?” He nods, and she upends the bottle, greedily lavish. There’s the slick on her fingers, and on the heated skin of his cock, hard and slippery, jerking under her hand. He groans again when she starts to stroke.

He’s flushed, his throat and his face red above the cooler, paler skin of his chest and shoulders, biting his lip when she circles her thumb over the tip of his cock. She leans in to kiss him, teasing his mouth open.

“I want to see you, too,” she murmurs, right into his ear. His cheek is hot against hers, his breath coming hard. “I like watching you.” She’s speeding up, her hand pumping. She kisses his ear, nibbles at it, then leans back a little, torso pressed against his. “I like seeing you let go.” His whole body twitches at that, chest heaving. In three more strokes, he shudders again, come spurting warm over her fingers.

He’s flopped out and spread open, all the tension gone from his shoulders. She snuggles in, watching as his breath steadies and he pulls himself back together. The air of the room feels cool against heated, sweating bodies; they should clean up, get under blankets. She can’t leave the lamp burning much longer, it will start to smoke. She doesn’t move just yet, still looking at Max, at the lamplight and shadows on his skin.

Miss Giddy had told them that photographs were made with light, not paint, that that’s how they recorded the image.

“You said a camera?” she says, careful with the unfamiliar word. He hums. 

“Could take a picture of you,” he says. She knows he means, like this, in this space, naked and soft. You can’t keep a moment, but she understands why the Before people tried to record them, to hold on to something fleeting and fragile and loved. For a long time, she had tried not to keep anything, not to give herself anything more to lose. “Might not work, in this light,” he admits. “Even if the camera’s okay.” 

“Just – just remember it, then,” she says. Max puts both arms around her, pulling her in and holding her close, nodding against her shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
